Chapter Five
JESUS IS COMINGto eat your leg
[Graffiti in an Arby’s men’s room, Grand Rapids, MI 4/8/05]
Florence-ADX sat in the middle of a bowl filled with scrub grass. No trees grew in the fields around the prison, just rocks and weeds, nothing tall enough to hide a fugitive. The prison itself sat low on that empty ground, most of its bulk hidden under the earth, an animal digging itself into the soil against the threat of all that empty blue sky. The clouds overhead shot past on winds that tore them to pieces as they came howling down out of the mountains.
Clark rolled into the Supermax prison at the head of a convoy sixty vehicles strong. Deserted and besieged in a dying land the place looked more spooky than he would have liked—the refugees in his minivans and big rigs had been through a lot already and he hated to deliver them to such a frightening place, but there were no alternatives. He didn’t have time to find another safe location to build a relocation camp. Clark nodded in approval when he saw what had been done in his absence—at least the place had been cleaned up, the dogs put back to work controlling the perimeter. The trailers that constituted Desiree Sanchez’s domain, the Bag, had been moved inside the second tier of fencing, where they would be safe.
The man who had implemented those changes, Vikram Singh Nanda, waited for him at the main gate of the prison. Clark detached Horrocks to square away the men and get them started on their AERs. He greeted his old friend with a brief hug. Something clattered against the epaulets of his uniform and he lifted Vikram’s wrist to get a good look. The Sikh Major wore a hammered steel bracelet on his left wrist. Not regulation, not by any means.
“It is my karra, a sign of my bondage to the teachings of the ten gurus,” Vikram explained, looking almost sheepish. “I do not… normally wear it, though I should.”
“Trying to get right with your God,” Clark muttered, and clapped his friend on the shoulder as he headed inside to the warden’s office. As requested someone had installed a cot and a dedicated communications terminal, a laptop that connected with Washington via a secure satellite network. He intended to spend a lot of time in the small room.
He sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and placed his sidearm in a top desk drawer. He steepled his fingers in front of him and then it all hit at once.
Bannerman Clark had gone for a week with little more than catnaps and cold noodles for sustenance. In that time he had fought a war.
He had butchered civilians.
Innocent, sick civilians who desperately needed medical care and basic services.
He had fought and strived against the unarmed citizens of the United States.
And he had lost anyway.
A cold emptiness like the void of space between galaxies opened up in his stomach and it went all the way down. He was empty, physically empty so that a slight wind could have come along and blown him away. The weariness in his arms and legs turned to paralysis and the buzzing in his head, the grinding, whining buzzsaw headache he always felt during combat operations unfolded into an entire machine shop of torment. Every moment of the battle for Denver waited there, separated and dissected, awaiting his careful analysis. He would spend the rest of his life, he knew, going over these factoids, these isolated decisions from the fray. Just as he continued to think through and re-think every battle he’d ever participated in. Most of them he had won, with relatively little loss of life. Those were easy, just logistics reports, lists of numbers and names, so many bullets fired here, so much materiel consumed there. The ones he had lost were the same except the lists of names had ghosts paper-clipped to them.
Something other than a ghost came with this action. The girl. The blonde girl who had to be the key to the Epidemic. She had escaped while he was busy with the WOFTAM of trying to defend a doomed city.
Clark had never believed in something so strongly before, but he believed that the girl was the answer he sought. The answer to why this was happening, and the answer to how to stop it. She was the one piece of the puzzle that didn't seem to fit, the one person who was neither on this side nor that, which meant she had to be more significant that she appeared. She had never been farther away from him.
Vikram stood before the desk, looking anxious but smiling. Always smiling. Clark had not heard his friend come in, did not know how long he had been standing there. Vikram was a veteran, though. He would understand the intensely personal malaise one fell into following a bad action.
Clark stared at the bracelet on his friend’s wrist. The current calamity had driven Vikram closer to his deity. “You’ve never doubted the existence of God for a moment, have you?” he asked, the words swimming out of him as if he were at the bottom of a cold, dark lake.
Vikram straightened up to a considerable height—he’d already been at attention but he found some more backbone somewhere. “The teachings of my faith require me to never have dealings with one who has no faith in some manner of god,” Vikram said in a proper, clipped tone. “This could prove difficult in our line of work. What should I do if my commanding officer was an atheist? I have asked myself this question many times. In the end I have chosen to follow a strict policy where it comes to religion. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
Clark grinned and it felt very, very good. He didn’t examine why he wanted to laugh so much, he just gladly accepted it. He'd been doing this for decades and he knew when you were down in that hole and a rope appeared, you grabbed it. “I’m way outside of my jurisdiction, here. This has become a joint duty assignment. Because of my special position as a, a policy expert,” he couldn’t bring himself to use the Civilian’s term: wonk, “I’ve been prevailing on your good counsel despite the fact that you outrank me. If you want to jump ship now you’d be well within your rights.”
“Not until the hurly-burly’s done, my friend,” Vikram said. “Let me rephrase: not until it is done, sir.” And that was that. “I have a situation report all in preparedness, should you care to hear it.”
Clark did not care to hear it. He had feasted on enough bad news to choke him. No, he thought, not now. “Alright,” he said. “No time like the present.” Sometimes you had to keep going in life no matter how awful you felt. Sometimes sheer obstinacy was the only thing for it.
“Colorado is under martial law. The cadets of the Air Force Academy were armed and mobilized until they were relieved. Reinforcements of regular Army troops, namely the 82nd Airborne and the 10th Mountain Division, are doing what they can to secure the state. This amounts in the most to blocking all the highways leading out. The interior of the state, by all accounts, is without governance.”
Clark had pretty much seen that for himself. He nodded.
“Nevada and Utah have both declared state-wide disasters but the relevant authorities remain in control. I spoke with a very nice radio operator in Salt Lake City and he told me that large parts of the city are quarantined but they believe they can hold the infected back from the central region. California is gone.”
Clark opened a box of pens he had found in one of his desk drawers. He had been arranging them in a pen holder while he listened. He stopped and set down the pen holder carefully on the edge of the desk blotter. “What does that mean? Los Angeles or San Francisco?”
“I mean that the entire state has stopped communicating with the outside world.” Vikram didn’t shift on his feet, didn’t so much as blink. “It was a gradual process, of course, and did not happen all and at once. Until this morning there still were units of the Marine Corps in Sacramento who I could speak with, though they were very busy. The last I heard was that they were expecting reinforcements from the sea—a carrier group, called in to help maintain order. Then silence only.”
Insanity. Bringing in sailors to do the job of soldiers. The Navy trained excellent warriors but it gave them little experience in dealing with threats while onshore. The desperation in the plan was obvious. Clark wondered if he could have come up with anything else.
“The infection has spread as far east as Ohio. We expect to hear about Pennsylvania in a few hours—there have been isolated reports of infection in New York City, whole neighborhoods under quarantine. The overseas picture is murky at best but we know that both Mexico and Canada have mobilized troops and that they are asking for help we cannot currently provide.”
Clark nodded. He picked up the pens again and started sorting them by color. “Bad, bad, bad, worse. So. We need to find out what to do next. Are you in contact with the Governor right now?” He dropped the pens in their cup one after the other. “Normally I would take this time to liaise with the Adjutant General of Colorado but he, I happen to know, is dead.”
“The Governor is not available, I’m afraid. His current whereabouts are unknown.”
“Alright, so find me a General somewhere. Or a Colonel. Somebody who can give me an order.” Vikram shook his head. “A Lieutenant Colonel? I’ll take a Major.”
“I am saying that in the whole of the COARNG, I cannot find an officer that outranks your good self. I think you are it.”
Not possible and yet… many of the best officers in the Guard, and therefore the highest ranking, were deployed still in Iraq. Many more had died in Denver. Was it possible that not even a single Major had survived? Well, there hadn’t been that many to start with.
The implications, however, were devastating. If a mere Captain was in charge of the Colorado Guard… well, at least he had his masters in the Pentagon. “Alright,” he said. He placed the pen holder at the top of his desk, on the left side, then moved it to the right. It looked better there. “Alright, we’re tucked in here. If I have to be in charge I’m going to at least get a night’s sleep before I start barking at people. Unless there’s something more you need to tell me,” he added, seeing the look on Vikram’s face.
“Bannerman, there is more to tell but I think it is better if you should see it for yourself.”
Clark raised an eyebrow.
“First Lieutenant Desiree Sanchez could use a moment of your time. Down in the Bag,” Vikram explained.
